


Lodge I thru V, The

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-31
Updated: 1999-12-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11331345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Escape to God's Country





	Lodge I thru V, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

The Lodge by Josan

Title: THE LODGE   
Author: Josan  
Beta: Solan  
Date: October, 1999  
Summary: Escape to God's Country  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: R, maybe  
Archive: Ratlover, CJK, and Yes to Basement.  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013; I am but borrowing them in this very lengthy off-season...and besides rumour has it that Krycek won't be appearing until after Christmas, so what does it matter if I keep him a bit longer than planned, eh? 

* * *

*******************************************************  
  


The pink-tinged mist was rising off the lake, like ghosts on their morning flight back to the heavens. 

This was a daily event for him, these days. Standing in the early dawn, at his end of the huge wrap-around porch, coffee mug in hand, watching the sun rise over his lake. 

Well, not really *his* lake. It hadn't come with the lodge. It was considered to be Crown Property, but the land at this end of it belonged to him. 

All because of an ad in the back of the New York Review of Books. "Lodge for sale by auction. Northern Ontario. Temiskaming region. Good hunting, fishing. Established business. Serious inquiries only, contact..." 

He still wasn't sure just how serious his inquiry had been. But the way things had turned out, serious enough so that the bid he had put in, a rather low one in his opinion, had brought him here to a land that had nothing to do with bureaucracy, double-dealings, cover-ups, lies. 

Here, the Temiskaming had its own problems, human ones as everywhere else. But unlike the so-called civilized urban areas, the Temiskaming was strong enough, uncaring enough to ignore human frailties. 

Strange that in a place that only emphasized the insignificance of man, he should have found such peace. 

It had cost him. 

He'd sold the condo, taken the "golden-handshake" --shove, really -- they'd offered him, made arrangements for his pension and investment cheques to be deposited to a Canadian account in Toronto. He'd cut all ties, not that he had many. Flown back up in the weekly mail plane, an Otter, to take possession that August 1\. 

The ad hadn't lied, exactly. There had been "an established business", but that was a couple of years back. And though someone had lived on the site, no repairs had been done in all that time. 

The lodge was a large log structure with a lobby, dining area, kitchen on the ground floor. The top floor consisted of two bathrooms, eight fairly large bedrooms, two larger ones at each end, with their own bathrooms. He had appropriated one of these as his, the one with the forest view. He had no trouble realizing that paying customers got the one with the lake view. 

There were also six cabins that dotted the area. These could be used for overflow, but were there mainly for the staff that he hoped would come back when they realized that the lodge was going to re-open in the spring. 

He'd already had a meeting with the local Ojibway council about hiring staff, labour to help with the repairs that needed to be done to the buildings, the equipment. They'd looked a bit taken aback when they'd asked him for his credentials for running this type of business. He'd caught the careful eye exchanges, the resigned sighs indicating their confidence in yet another of these stupid white men from the city who was coming up here to hug a tree. Still, he had money to pay for supplies and help: they would be even more stupid not to take it. Besides, it wouldn't do their business in guiding much good if a "tourist" died up here in the winter-time. They'd be keeping an eye on him. 

He knew he'd surprised them. He had no trouble admitting he knew very little and not only asked questions, but listened to their answers. He was courteous. Worked harder and longer hours than any of them. Appreciated the beauty of the land while not underestimating its uncaring nature. 

He gained the elders' approval when he sat down with them with the list of past clientele and asked for their advice on which of them was worthwhile contacting, to let them know the lodge would be back in business. 

And through it all, he began to find the peace that he so badly needed. 

Now, this morning, as he watched the rising sun paint the small snow-dusted valley with light, he realized that some of his ghosts had been laid to rest. 

He smiled. The lodge was ready for winter and whatever the winds threw at him. The roof had been shingled where it needed it, the solar panels that provided hot water checked out, the windows caulked. Supplies brought in. He had bought and installed two new generators, a new skidoo, short-wave radio as well as enough batteries necessary for the cell phone that he would only occasionally be able to use. He had a list of things to keep him more than occupied throughout the winter. The RCMP knew he was here, had come to check him out personally. 

He took a sip of his cooling coffee. He had even been prepared for the first blast of winter that had arrived September 28th. Just a few inches, but enough to make him appreciate the snugness of his bedroom and the warmth of the wood fire. 

So, he'd been surprised to get a call on the radio telling him that the mail plane would be landing today with a package for him. The lake was still open so that the plane would land, but it would have to wait till it froze over before coming again. And then only if the weather allowed. 

Package, he had learnt, was the pilot's code for a passenger. 

Just who the hell would be coming up here at this time of the year to see him? Whoever it was, it would be a short visit: they'd have to go back with the pilot and the short daylight meant Terry might stay for an hour, max. 

Well, he had things to do. And his partner was waiting for him to get a move on. He looked down at the large malamute mixture that was sitting at the foot of the stairs, head cocked, not so patiently waiting for him to finish his coffee. 

"Okay, Boy, I'm coming." He went back in, exchanged his mug for a thermos and went to work on one of the cabins. 

It was noon when he heard the plane buzzing overhead. Terry always did a once-over to let him know he was landing, then dropped the plane like a gliding loon onto the silvery water. 

The plane pulled over to the landing dock, a man jumped out, two pieces of luggage followed and the plane backed out onto the lake for take-off. 

Not normal procedure. 

He went into the mud room, unlocked a closet, grabbed his rifle from the gun cabinet and went out onto the porch to greet his "package". 

The man was carrying a bag in each hand, dropped them when he saw the weapon, slowly raised his hands. Carefully approached. About twenty feet from the porch he stopped. 

"Gee, Skinner, fancy meeting you here." 

"Krycek! What the fuck are you doing here?" 

******************************************************* 

They were in the kitchen. 

Skinner had placed the rifle on the counter, close enough at hand if he should happen to need it. He warmed up soup on the cooking stove that provided the heat for the kitchen, made cheese sandwiches. He cut an extra piece off the block for Boy who was keeping his eyes on Krycek, sitting, hands flat on the table. Skinner didn't doubt for a moment that Krycek was armed. 

He was hungry, so he ate. Krycek had just nodded his thanks when he'd placed the bowl of soup in front of him. He played with the contents more than he ate. Skinner took the time between bites to look him over. 

Krycek looked older. For someone who had passed for years younger, he now looked his age. Which had to be mid-thirties. And he didn't look particularly well. Not ill, but just not well. Worn out was maybe a better way of expressing it. 

His eating habits might explain the wiriness of his body. He seemed to be more honed down than when Skinner had last seen him: explaining to an in camera meeting of select senators his role as a double agent with the rebels forces. They hadn't disbelieved him: just not especially believed. Or hadn't wanted to. 

That was a couple of weeks before he had been forced into retirement. Of course, they hadn't believed he was involved with the Consortium: hadn't disbelieved it either. It was easier for them to move out of sight those with information they hadn't wanted to deal with, been forced to deal with. 

He wondered where Krycek had been moved to. Didn't care enough to ask. Not that, at least. 

"What are you doing here, Krycek?" 

Krycek stopped pretending he was eating, carefully aligned the spoon beside the bowl. 

"I hear you're looking for help. Thought since you knew me, I wouldn't need to send a resume." 

Skinner snorted. "I doubt that your skills would be of much use up here, Krycek. Besides, I'm not hiring till spring." 

He got up, went to the radio. 

"Terry said to tell you there's a storm on the way. That's why he couldn't stay. He said to contact him once it was over: he'd have to see how the weather was before coming in." 

Skinner turned, expecting to see Krycek gloating: instead he found himself looking at a man who didn't seem to have the energy to do anything but sit there. He looked out toward the lake, saw the sky filling with heavy black-gray clouds. 

Shit! He was stuck with the man, at least until Terry could get back in. Well, it didn't mean he had to have him under his roof. One of the cabins was fairly liveable: he'd move him there. Out of sight. He went to get some bedding. 

"Come on." 

He grabbed his jacket, tossed Krycek his along with his bag -- the second had been stuff for him -- and led the way out. Boy followed them. 

The cabin was one of the smaller ones. It had a double bed in one corner, a small wood stove in another, a table, a couple of chairs. Its only light source was the lantern that sat on the table. 

Skinner dropped the bedding on the bed, opened a closet-like area. "Chemical toilet. Showers in the main house, off the mud room. Wood for the stove is stacked to the left of the lodge. I'd bring in a few more loads if I were you before the snow hits." He did light the stove himself, to made sure it was drawing properly. 

"Breakfast is at seven, lunch at twelve, supper at six." 

He shut the door behind him. 

******************************************************* 

The storm, when it hit, was his first experience with a weather front that left snow drifts of over six feet. Now he understood why the doors opened inward, why the cabins faced leeward. He didn't see Krycek until late the next morning, in a lull between fronts, making his way to the lodge, following the lower wind-scooped valleys between the drifts. 

Damn, thought Skinner, apart from the jacket, he didn't have the proper clothes. By the time Krycek came up the back stairs, his jeans were wet to the thighs. 

"I know," Krycek said. "I'm too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. I was wondering if I could get a cup of coffee?" 

Skinner had the impression that if he said no, Krycek wouldn't argue, would just re-trace his steps back to the cabin. He nodded toward the door, followed Krycek in after he'd dusted whatever snow he had on him off at the door. 

Skinner stripped off his waterproof skidoo suit, went and poured himself a cup. Krycek was sitting at the table, eyes closed, just inhaling the steam that rose from the cup he held in his hand. 

Skinner shook his head, went into the pantry and came out with last night's leftover stew. He put some in one of the big cast iron pans that were hanging from the wall by the stove, heated it up and placed it in front of Krycek. 

Krycek looked surprised, thanked him and began eating. For a couple of minutes he ate with appetite, and then, as if a switch had been flipped off, he stopped. For the next few minutes, he played at eating, then even stopped that. 

Skinner caught himself from asking what was wrong: because there was something certainly wrong with the man. But that would mean he was concerned, and he didn't want to be. Still, he couldn't have the man falling sick on him. Trekking back and forth to the lodge in wet jeans, underdressed would do that. He went into the store room came back with an older skidoo suit, one that he'd found here. It hadn't been big enough for him but it would do for Krycek. 

"Here, wear this. It'll keep you dry. Put the dishes in the sink when you're through." 

Skinner put his suit back on, went back to shovelling snow off the porch. About a half hour later, as he rounded the corner of the porch, he found the snow there had been cleared off, that Krycek was now clearing a path to the wood pile at the back of the lodge. 

He watched for a minute, anger warring with gratitude. This was *his* porch and he wanted to be the one to clear it off. But then he realized that he would have more than enough opportunity to do over the winter. Besides, he wasn't going to charge Krycek, didn't want his money, but if the man wanted to clear snow as a way of paying for this enforced stay, he was going to be smart enough to accept. There were other things he could be doing. He went and did them. 

He didn't see Krycek again until supper time. And, as with lunch, Krycek ate hungrily for a bit, then played at eating. Boy had no objections to cleaning off his plate. He stayed to help clean up, put the suit back on and made his way back to the cabin. It was snowing again, heavily. Skinner told himself that was the only reason he stayed at the kitchen window, watching until he saw the light appear in the cabin window. 

He managed to get hold of Terry the next day, only to be told that until the lake froze up solid with a sheet of ice a good six inches thick, he was stuck with his visitor. 

"Guy told me you were expecting him. That he hadn't known exactly when so it was going to be a surprise. I told him it might be a while before I could come and pick him up. He said it would be okay." 

"Thanks, Terry. Just let me know when you think you could manage a landing." 

Skinner got up next morning to find coffee already made, and Krycek working on snow removal. He made breakfast, called the man in. This time when Krycek began playing with his food, Skinner asked, "Is there something wrong with the food?" 

Krycek looked up from his plate, shook his head. "No." 

"Then just what the hell is the matter with you? You start eating and then you just stop." 

Krycek shrugged. "It's not the food." He got up, scrapped his plate into Boy's food dish, much to the dog's delight. He went to wash the plate when Skinner rose, caught him by the shoulder. 

"Okay. I can't say it thrilled me to see you landing on my doorstep. Especially since I'm going to be stuck with you for some time. But because I *am* going to be stuck with you, why don't you tell me what the hell's wrong with you?" 

Krycek looked at the plate, reached over and placed it on the table. "Remember the senate hearing?" 

"Yes." Skinner took his hand off Krycek, went and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. 

"They decided for my own security that I should be channelled into their witness protection program." 

Skinner waited. 

"Except it wasn't so secure. And I think, though I can't really prove it, the only ones they were looking to protect were themselves." 

"What happened?" 

"One of the agents assigned to move me through the program tried to kill me." 

Skinner had to admit he really wasn't surprised. He still had family who could raise difficult questions: Krycek...well, who would care if Krycek just disappeared? 

"He wanted it to look like an execution. Had me kneel in front of him. He was going to cuff my hands behind my back when I surprised him." 

Oh, yeah, thought Skinner, I'll just bet you did. 

"Still, he managed to get me in the gut before he died. Not badly. But it was some time before I covered up both our traces and got to someone who could stitch me up. Between blood loss and infection, I was sick for a couple of weeks. I still have trouble eating. But I've eaten more here in the last two days than I have in a week." He gave a tired smile. "Must be something in the air." 

"Should you be shovelling?" 

Krycek gave a small one-shouldered shrug. "Doesn't seem to be killing me. Besides, if we don't keep up with it, the snow will just harden and it'll be impossible to clear." 

"You've got so much snow experience, have you?" Skinner challenged lightly. 

"I spent a winter in Russia, Skinner. You ain't seen nothing yet. Believe me." 

*******************************************************  
End of THE LODGE 1/3

 

THE LODGE (2/3) 

******************************************************* 

The weather didn't co-operate. It warmed up, enough to melt some of the snow, to keep the lake from freezing hard. The thin crust of ice that covered the water wouldn't take Boy's weight, let alone that of a plane. 

Strangely enough, *they* managed to co-operate. Krycek kept the porch, the pathways to cabins, wood-piles cleared while Skinner did whatever work he had planned for the day. He made the meals and Krycek helped with clean-up. 

If it was snowing outside, Krycek found things to clean inside the lodge. Skinner noticed that he tired easily, disappeared for an afternoon nap, went to bed almost right after supper. At least the light in the cabin was doused soon after he returned to it. Skinner got the feeling that the "not bad" shot to the gut had been worse than Krycek had admitted. 

Terry needed a good secure day of light before he would even attempt to come up to the lodge. So far, between snows, winds, relatively warm weather, he hadn't made it. 

Skinner was surprised to find that Krycek didn't grate on his nerves. He was quiet, worked at things without being asked, came to help if he saw Skinner needed it. In spite of having only one really useful hand, Skinner was impressed with the way Krycek had learnt to improvise, to accommodate for the prosthesis. 

Before he knew it, Krycek had been at the lodge a month. He noticed it the night Krycek actually cleaned off his plate himself. Even Krycek seemed surprised to find there were nothing to scrape into Boy's dish. 

Terry contacted the lodge the next morning while they were at breakfast to tell Skinner he was coming in. 

Krycek stopped eating, bent his head, seemingly looking at the food on his plate. Skinner said nothing, refilled his coffee mug, took his seat at the table. 

Krycek pushed the plate away from the edge of the table, placed both his hands on the table. Head bowed, he spoke so softly that Skinner had trouble hearing him at first. 

There had been a time in his life he'd have given anything to hear Alex Krycek beg. He used to dream of it after the incident with the nanocytes. Used to imagine in great detail what he would like to do to Krycek to make him beg. The pleasure it would give him to ignore the begging. Even after he found out how many sides Krycek had been playing on, how much information he had passed on to Mulder, he still had the dreams. 

But that was then. 

This was now. 

And Krycek had already escaped one attempted execution. 

He'd needed a place to hide out. Had come here, into avowed enemy territory to do it. Because. What? Why the hell had he thought he could come up here and not be made to pay any less? 

But he hadn't been, had he? Skinner hadn't taken any revenge other than send him to sleep in a cabin that, though it was winterized, was really not made to house anyone in this weather. His big bit of revenge. 

Now here was Krycek, begging...God, yes! He'd begged. Had said "I beg you, please. Let me stay." In that soft voice. Not really expecting Skinner to let him. 

Skinner said nothing. After a minute, Krycek pushed his chair away from the table, went into the mud room. He put on his boots, pulled his jacket on, went out to the cabin. He left the skidoo suit behind. 

Boy followed him to the door, whimpered when it was closed in his face. He came back to Skinner, sat watching him. Finally, Skinner reached out and patted the animal on the head. 

He got up, pulled on his boots, grabbed his jacket and went out to the porch. He moved quickly. If he slowed down, he would think about what he was doing and stop himself. 

He didn't bother knocking at the door of the cabin, just opened it. 

Krycek wasn't packing. 

He was sitting in one of the chairs, jacket still on, holding a gun in his hand. He looked up, surprised at the interruption. 

Skinner stopped breathing for a moment. Then, slowly, he closed the door behind him. 

The two men stared at each other. Neither of them moved. 

Then, carefully, Skinner made his way over to Krycek. He reached and took the gun out of his hand. Pocketed it. 

At the door, he spoke over his shoulder. "Until spring. Then we'll see." 

Terry dropped off fresh supplies, a month's worth of mail, gossip and left without a "package". 

***************************************************** 

They didn't speak about the incident. 

Krycek's appetite dropped for a couple of days and Boy enjoyed the fact. Not that they'd been talkative before, but now Krycek was positively silent. He thanked Skinner for the food with a nod, waited for instructions if there were any forthcoming and generally found things to do that took him out of Skinner's sight and hearing. 

Skinner finally took a good look at his enemy and realized that Krycek was a man with no future to look forward to. He knew too much, had no one to offer him protection, no real place to hide out. He'd made too many enemies. Even the information he'd passed on to Mulder hadn't really gained him anything: the men he'd brought down with it had allies even in the new administration. 

He was exhausted, not just physically. Maybe a bullet to the brain would be a quicker death than anything that would be done to him if he were caught. 

But, Skinner thought, if Krycek said he'd covered his traces after being shot, he was certain the job would have been well done. If everyone thought the man was dead, he at least would have a chance at getting his health back, making plans. 

Come spring, Skinner reasoned, people would believe Alex Krycek was dead and he could get rid of him with a clear conscience. 

The weather stayed unseasonably warm until Christmas. Not that it was warm by Skinner and Washington standards: it snowed, it was cold, it was often gray. But for Temiskaming, the fact that they hadn't yet had nights of -40C, well, according to Terry, it was practically balmy. 

While Skinner worked on the cabins outside, he put Krycek to work on the bedrooms upstairs, all but his own. Each room was cleaned, every repair needed was noted. Each room had a small wood stove that had to be taken apart, cleaned, checked out. Skinner had no intention of ever taking winter customers, but even in summer, Temiskaming nights could be cool. 

The first really bad blizzard struck in mid January: over a metre of snow, winds of 110 kph, wind-chill factor of -42C. 

For the first time since the "incident", Skinner worried about Krycek out in the cabin. He dressed quickly in the coolness of his bedroom, added some wood to the stove. It wouldn't do to let it go out today, not with this wind. And if his room was this cool, Krycek's cabin must be frigid. He hurried down the stairs, wondering how the hell he was going to get to the cabin in this storm. 

He was on his way to the mud room when he realized that there was something on the floor at the side of the kitchen stove. Krycek was sleeping, huddled under Boy's blanket, as close to the heat as possible. In the mud room, Skinner found the skidoo suit in a puddle of melting snow on the floor. He picked it up, shook it only to discover that the side that had been folded in on itself was frozen together. It was less than a hundred feet from cabin to lodge. Skinner wondered how long it had taken Krycek to find his way in the dark with the storm raging around him. 

He hung up the suit to dry, added wood to the fire box and tried to wake Krycek up. He was barely alert when Skinner got him to his feet, more or less carried him to the stairs and up into his bedroom. There he stripped the damp clothes, the prosthesis off the man, got him dressed in a pair of his sweats, thick socks on his feet and tucked the bedclothes around him. He built up the fire and waited until the wood in the stove was solidly burning. 

In the kitchen he put together the fixings for some soup, placed the kettle at the back of the stove where it would simmer until ready. He called Boy in from his kennel: the malamute might be bred for northern temperatures, but Skinner was enough of a southerner to feel this weather was too harsh for even the canine member of his household. 

He checked in on Krycek a couple of times that morning, to replenish the fire, to make certain he was just sleeping, not fevered. 

The storm was still going strong when Krycek made his way down to the kitchen in time for lunch. 

"You all right?" Skinner asked as the man sat in the chair closest to the heat. He handed him a mug of coffee, watched him hold it carefully in his one hand. He waited until he drank some before asking, "How long did it take you to find the door?" 

Krycek shrugged. 

Whether that meant he didn't know or didn't care to answer, Skinner couldn't tell. 

"You're moving into the lodge. The bedroom next to mine. It'll be the easiest to keep warm what with the two stoves in the same area." 

"Might not be a good idea," offered Krycek. His voice was husky, as if he were coming down with a cold. 

"Why the hell not?" Skinner was angry at himself: he should have moved Krycek into the lodge with the first storm. What if he'd lost his way, hadn't found the door? The man could have died out there. 

Krycek took a sip of coffee. "I have nightmares. That close to you, I'll wake you up." 

"I'll chance that," Skinner growled. And made Krycek eat something. Krycek's appetite was low again. It was becoming a barometer Skinner could use to judge how the man was feeling. 

He pulled in one of the sofas from the lobby, placed it near the heat, went and got some bedding. When they were warm enough to suit him, he made Krycek lie down and get some rest. 

The wind made Skinner aware of just what a good chance this was to check for drafts in the rest of the lodge. He was pleased to note that except for one or two places, all his work of the fall was holding true. He checked the fire in his room, started the one in the room next to his for Krycek. When the room was warm enough, he made up the bed. 

That done, he dragged one of the overstuffed armchairs into the kitchen, stoked the fire, and settled to read the rest of the afternoon away. 

Boy slept soundly on his blanket in the corner. Krycek twitched on and off in his sleep, occasionally making little sounds of protest that grew louder. Skinner watched to see if the man would calm down. Usually, Krycek would open his eyes, as though forcing himself awake, look around the room and, obviously relieved, he would drop back down into sleep. 

If that was the way he slept, no wonder it was taking him so long to regain his strength, his appetite. Skinner shrugged, told himself it was Krycek's problem, not his. 

It became his the second night Krycek slept in the lodge. He was awakened out of a sound sleep by the screams coming from the man's bedroom. 

Skinner lay in bed, not moving, waiting for the sound to stop. It did, only to be followed by steps rushing to the bathroom across the hall. Then he did move, opened the door to hear Krycek being violently ill. 

"Jesus!" Skinner watched as Krycek barely had the time to breathe before yet another onslaught of vomiting gripped him. Even when he had emptied his stomach, his body still continued heaving until Skinner wondered if the stomach lining was going to come up. 

He knelt next to Krycek, tried to get him to swallow some warm water to help ease the pain of voiding nothing. Grabbed the bath sheet and draped it around his shoulders. Finally placed his arm around his shoulders, rubbed his back trying to find a way to soothe him. 

Krycek lay his cheek on the toilet seat, too drained to move. He finally managed to rinse his mouth, drink some of the water. He needed help to get to his feet. 

Skinner closed the lid, directed Krycek to sit down. He wet a cloth, passed it over his face. Went and got a fresh sweat top to replace the one spattered with vomit. He got Krycek back into his room and back into the bed. 

"Sorry." Krycek's voice was rawer than usual. "I'll move back to the cabin in the morning." 

Skinner sat on the side of the bed. Krycek's face had no colour. His body shook with occasional tremors. "Is it always like this?" He tucked the blankets around him closer. 

"Usually." There was only acceptance in Krycek's voice. 

"How often? Once a week? Once a month?" 

Krycek moved his head so he could nestle a bit further into the comfort of the blankets. "Every couple of nights." 

Skinner sat by Krycek's side until the man fell asleep again. Out of exhaustion, he supposed. He couldn't see how anyone could have a nightmare like that and go back to sleep voluntarily. 

He reached out with a hand, and stroked the hair off Krycek's forehead. 

In the morning, he refused to let Krycek move back to the cabin. "You'll freeze. And it's not like moving back will help the nightmares. You'll stay in that room. It's not open to discussion, Krycek." 

The next time Skinner was awakened by noises coming from Krycek's room, he went to wake the man. It wasn't easy: the nightmare had him firmly in its grip, but it released him before it got to the point where he was sick. Krycek kept on saying "Sorry" as though he expected to be punished for having wakened him. Skinner made him lie on his side, rubbed his back through his clothes, until he'd calmed down enough to sleep again. 

The earlier Skinner caught the nightmare, the easier it was to wake Krycek. After eight nights of sleeping with an ear open for sounds, Skinner decided that neither of them was getting the sleep they needed. There had to be another solution to the problem. 

That night he didn't hear Krycek until he was in the bathroom puking his guts up. By the time it was over and he'd gotten him cleaned up, Krycek was shaking like a leaf. Instead of putting Krycek back into his bed, Skinner brought him into his bedroom, put him into his bed. He threw an extra blanket onto the bed, got in and pulled the trembling man into his arms. He spooned himself behind Krycek, letting his body heat help ease the tremors. 

He woke in the morning, Krycek wrapped around him, sound asleep. Skinner slipped out of Krycek's embrace and did some thinking throughout the day. That night, when they went upstairs to bed, Skinner stopped Krycek at the door of his room. "Get changed and then come into my room." 

Krycek looked at him for a minute, slowly nodded and went and did as he had been told. 

Skinner was coming out of his bathroom when Krycek knocked on the door and came in. He was wearing a sweat suit, thick wool socks. He'd taken off the prosthesis. There was no expression on his face. He stood there quietly while Skinner examined him. 

"In the bed." 

Skinner thought he'd have to say it again when Krycek moved. He stopped at the side of the bed, hesitated and then got in. Skinner turned off the lantern, got into bed. Made himself comfortable, his back to the man lying on his back, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. 

"Go to sleep, Krycek. This way, I'll be able to hear you faster. Maybe you'll be able to keep your supper down where it'll do more good." 

When the faint mewling sound began, Skinner turned, pulled the man into his arms and went back to sleep. Krycek slept that night through. And even if the nightmare gripped him suddenly other nights, Skinner was right there to wake him, to hold him, to chase the demons away. 

Krycek slept better, ate better, put on weight. Gradually the aura of 'un-well-ness" that had surrounded him since his arrival was dispersed. He began to show more interest in what Skinner was doing. Even offered some suggestions of his own. Skinner never realized how depressed Krycek had been until he started getting better. 

He discovered that Krycek had a variety of skills he could use. He knew weapons, expertly cleaned all the rifles that hung around the lodge, even the old ones that were used only as decorations. He actually had a few plumbing skills which came in handy when some of the pipes froze. When Skinner got fed up with eating his own cooking, Krycek took over with the few dishes he knew how to put together. 

And, to Skinner's delight, he played chess. 

After supper, when the dishes were done, they sat at the kitchen table and challenged each other to display skills almost forgotten. Games could and did last for days. They had nowhere to go, no schedules to attend to, so if one wanted to take a half hour or more to determine a move, well, what did it matter. 

And, every night, Krycek got into Skinner's bed and slept, Skinner either close by or with an arm around him, keeping him safe from night terrors. 

******************************************************* 

Terry landed the plane, skied to a close stop by the dock. Skinner was waiting for him, ready to stack the supplies on the sled for easy carrying to the lodge. 

"Molly at the Post Office says you'd better answer some of that mail right away. Seems you got some replies to those brochures you mailed out." 

It still took Skinner aback that the Postmistress knew more about his business than he did. 

"Coffee's fresh. Do you have the time?" 

There were three responses, all from previous visitors who were pleased the lodge was re-opening. Two were coming for the fishing, and would he see to it that they had a guide. One was coming just to get away from phones: he wanted a written guarantee that apart from satellite and his cell phone, no one would be able to contact him for the week he was reserving. 

Suddenly, Walter Sergei Skinner, ex-Assistant Director of the FBI, found that he was an innkeeper. For a moment there, he was swamped with an incredible sense of fear. Jesus Christ! Just what was he doing here, up in the middle of nowhere? 

Then he took a deep breath, realized that Terry was grinning at him, released it. 

It took him just a few minutes to write out three letters confirming booking dates, costs. 

Terry was reading over his shoulder as he worked on the laptop. 

"Don't forget to request a deposit. Twenty percent is what old Davison used to ask. They're used to that." 

So he added that. 

"Why don't you give Molly the right to open your business mail until air service is regular again. She can contact you if anything comes in. Wouldn't want to miss a customer because I couldn't get in." 

So he did that too. 

Krycek waited until Terry had left to come out of wherever he was hiding. Skinner had agreed to let him stay only till spring and it was coming up close to that time. Every time Terry made it in, he expected Skinner to tell him to pack his things. Not that he could blame him: having a haunted man in his bed hadn't been part of the deal. 

Skinner had other things on his mind. He looked up at him with a sappy grin that made him look like a kid. "Look, Krycek, we've got reservations. We're in business." 

For a moment, Krycek let himself be part of the "we", then pulled sharply away. No sense going somewhere he would never be welcomed. He nodded at Skinner's enthusiasm. "Congratulations," he offered softly, his voice never really having recovered from the nights of screaming, vomiting. "Isn't there a bottle of wine somewhere in the pantry?" 

There was. 

By the end of the week, Molly had contacted him with two more reservations. 

Skinner never noticed that as his spirits rose, Krycek's went back down. That the nightmares were coming back and Krycek was eating less again. 

He was in the lobby, adding another reservation to the book when Krycek came in from cleaning up some of the winter debris from the yard. 

"We've got another reservation for a week in July." He looked up in time to see Krycek flinch. "What's wrong? Krycek," he came out from behind the registration desk, "what's the problem?" 

When Krycek went to turn away, Skinner grabbed him by the shoulders. "There's something wrong. Why don't you tell me what it is?" 

"It's March 19th." Krycek waited. 

"Yes. So?" Skinner hadn't a clue. 

"It's spring in two days."   
But it was more than that, so Skinner pushed. "Yes, and?" 

"You keep on saying 'we'. 'We' have another reservation. You told me I could stay until spring. Terry's flying in the next day." 

Skinner released Krycek, took a turn around the lobby. He'd forgotten, he'd actually forgotten his plan of getting rid of Krycek when spring arrived. In his mind, he'd assigned Krycek all sorts of things to do before the first customer arrived in late May. Without being aware of it, he'd included Krycek in his plans. 

He stopped pacing and gave Krycek a good look-over. 

No one other than himself had been part of his plans at the beginning. He had seen himself running the lodge by himself, not with a partner. He would have help, of course, but they would be around only for the season. 

A short four-month season. 

If he were being honest, he doubted he could have gotten through the past winter by himself, alone with Boy. 

And not that even now, even during the season, there wouldn't be more than enough work to keep Krycek as busy as he wanted to be. 

Then there was the problem of the nightmares. Sure, now they were under control. Because they slept together. That might be a problem when the visitors arrived. Especially with the type of men who were coming up. 

Skinner crossed his arms over his chest, began drumming the fingers of one hand against his shoulder. 

"The cabin behind the lodge, just what repairs are needed to finish it?" 

Krycek forced himself to think. "Some floor boards need replacing. There's a leak somewhere on the left side of the roof. The fireplace in the bedroom is stuffed with straw. It needs a thorough cleaning." 

"Okay. Leave all the other stuff and make that cabin a priority." 

Krycek was confused. "I thought you wanted that one done last. For the cook and her husband." 

"No. I changed my mind. They can have the bedroom upstairs. It's right above the kitchen and the stairs by the room come right down to it." He went back to the paper work that waited for him on the desk. "*We* will move into the back cabin. It has two rooms, unlike all the others. People will just assume we use both of them to sleep in. There's a sofa bed we can move in, from the front bedroom. And besides, it may be a good thing to have a bit of distance between us and the paying customers." 

He picked up his pen, made a notation on a calendar he was working on. He didn't bother looking up. "You'd better measure the doorways and the room. We might have some trouble moving our bed into there." 

Krycek didn't move right away. "Skinner. Are you sure?" 

Skinner looked up. "I'm sure." 

******************************************************  


 

* * *

 

THE LODGE

******************************************************* 

The season was a mixture of fiascos, successes, fun and disasters. 

Skinner learnt that being as he called himself "an innkeeper" required more patience, more tolerance, much more diplomacy, negotiating skills, humility than he had ever needed at the Bureau. 

Fishing trips could be a huge success or a devastating failure depending on the client, the guide, the weather, the mosquitoes, the fish. Some of the staff the council had told him would come back, didn't. If he had had illusions of standing behind the registration desk, serving meals, making witty conversation with his guests, the first week quickly took care of that. 

He stripped beds, did laundry, listened to dumb corporate jokes that quickly grew stale. He discovered that there weren't enough hours in a day and he thanked God, often, that Alex was around. And that they had moved into the back cabin. If he needed to vent his frustrations, Alex was there to listen to him, to sympathize. To fill in whenever, wherever he was needed. To help. 

There were nights they fell into bed, barely able to find the energy to undress. 

A freak snowstorm at the beginning of September meant that the season ended early, and Walter thanked whatever god was responsible for the storm with great sincerity. It meant that he had to refund the reservation money, but he didn't care. 

Terry made it in a week after the storm, when the sun had returned in full force, melting all the snow. 

He opened a bag and pulled out a bottle of champagne. Got three glasses out of the kitchen cupboard. Popped the bottle open and poured. "From everyone in the village. Congratulations. We didn't think you'd stick it out, but you proved us wrong." He handed each of the men a glass. Raised his. "To the next successful season. And to many more." 

Walter looked at his glass. "This was a success?" 

Terry looked surprised. "Of course. No one died, you didn't lose anyone, and no one killed anyone. What more could you ask for?" 

"Sanity?" Alex picked up his glass. 

"Sanity? Jesus, man, if it was sanity you wanted, what the hell are you doing up here, eh?" 

Walter stood up, raised his glass and touched it to Terry's. Alex shrugged and joined them. 

"You're sure this was a successful season?" Walter asked Terry. "I mean, I'll take it if that's what you say it was, but it sure didn't feel like that to me." 

"Take it from me, you had a good season. One year, you'll look back on this season with nostalgia." 

"Oh, God!" Alex moaned. 

To the surprise of only Walter and Alex, almost half of the first season's clients wrote to reserve for the next one. 

******************************************************* 

They moved back into the lodge for the winter. 

Boy had gone off wandering in the fall, returned with a female who was promptly named Madonna for her long eyelashes, obviously bulging body. 

Repairs were done, cabins closed off. Equipment repaired and stored. 

Terry brought in a TV, a VCR and a box load of videos. 

Madonna gave birth to three large pups, in the mud room, with Walter and Alex looking on, terrified to be called upon as mid-wives. 

And then, just after Christmas, Walter and Alex became lovers. 

After almost a year of sharing a bed. 

Because of a nightmare Walter had, one of the ones he had now and then about Vietnam. 

After so many nights of being consoled, Alex had a chance to return the favour. 

He held Walter tightly against him, trying to absorb the trembling aftermath of his nightmare. Rubbed his check against Walter's head, murmuring in the soft tones that Walter used to soothe him. Pressed a kiss on the side of Walter's head, was beginning another when Walter turned his head and caught the kiss on his mouth. 

The next kiss was tentative. The next less so. 

They slowly stripped each other under the layers of blankets, taking the time to explore with their hands what they couldn't see in the dark. Alex used his t-shirt to wipe the come from their mutual masturbation session off their bodies. 

They touched in silence except for the sounds of their completions, held each other after and went to sleep. 

In the morning, Walter got up, stoked up the fire, used the toilet and went back to bed. He watched Alex wake up, waited until he was certain Alex was wide awake before he bent down and kissed him. 

Alex slipped out of bed, took his turn in the bathroom came out with the container of hand lotion Molly had sent them when Terry had commented on the state of their hands before the season had begun. 

In the pale light of a December morning, Walter had his wicked way, as Alex later teased him, with him. And then later in the morning, Alex with him. 

Walter lay propped up on the pillows, Alex's head on his shoulder, arms around each other. He dropped a kiss on Alex's head. "I wonder just when the hell I fell in love with you." 

Alex made a little sound of contentment. "When I stepped between you and Tom Gallagher just as he threw up." 

Walter laughed. "Probably." He waited a bit. "Alex?" 

"Hmm?" 

"When did you fall in love with me?" 

Alex looked up. "The first time I saw you in the hallway at Headquarters. You were growling at some wimpy agent about a report." 

Walter looked unbelieving. 

"You were wearing a dark navy suit, a white shirt and a Marine tie. You looked down the hall at me, nodded a greeting, said," and he did a fair imitation of Walter's AD voice, "'You look lost, agent. Is there anyway I can help you?' And I've wanted you ever since." 

"Jesus, Alex!" Walter was stunned. 

Alex smiled dreamily, resettled his head against Walter's shoulder. 

******************************************************* 

The second season was more under control. They had an idea of what to expect, or so they thought. 

They lined up a couple of extra guides, in case of emergencies. Made sure that they had an overabundance of bug repellant on hand. Lots of books, videos for rainy days. Made sure the cook had lots of provisions on hand for emergency feedings. 

Like for the group of six that came up for a week and it rained every day. A couple of them managed to get in some fishing, but the rest just lazed around the lobby, playing poker, smoking cigars and eating anything that Marie whipped up to keep them sated. Three of them reserved another week for the next season before they left. Walter gave Marie a bonus for the work she'd put in that week. 

Alex found himself followed around by three little girls who had come up with their parents who were fishing fanatics. While their parents went out, the trio, aged 8 to 12, attached themselves to Alex, absolutely delighted to do anything he asked them to. So he had them name the pups who still hadn't been named six months after their birth. 

Which is how the males came to be called Sylvester, Pepe, and the female, Mismew. 

When the second season drew to a close, Walter and Alex shared another bottle of champagne with Terry, took advantage of the good weather to go spend a week in Toronto where they gorged themselves on fresh fruit, theatre, book and music stores. 

Walter made an appointment with a lawyer, had the paper work drawn up making Alex part owner of the lodge, wrote out his last will and testament. Alex was upset by both. 

"For god's sake, Alex. You work just as hard as I do, put in just as many hours. I'm just putting on paper what everybody knows to be true. And as for my will, that's just in case. If anything happens to me, I want the lodge in good hands. Yours. That's all this is." 

It took a long, careful session of loving for Alex to accept both. 

He had some money of his own. Cash and jewels that he had brought with him when he had been sent off on the witness protection program. That had spent most of the time in the fake bottom of his luggage. Even though he had made very certain that there would be no way to trace him using the money, he carefully took his time exchanging his American money for Canadian throughout the city. When Walter was off somewhere on his own, Alex went to Walter's bank, deposited the money that he hoped would equal about what Walter had spent on supplies for repairs since he'd arrived. If he was going to be a partner, he was going to be a real one. 

It took a long, careful session of loving for Walter to accept that. 

They enjoyed their week in the city but were happier than they would have thought to return to the quiet, the soothing beauty of their lake. 

The third season brought with it a couple of surprises. 

One of their regular guests, a man who had come both seasons, wanted to reserve the lodge and all places possible for a group of business colleagues. They were working on a possible mega-million dollar merger and wanted a nice, quiet place to meet to wheel and deal. Would it be possible for them to helicopter in and out a week before the lodge's season officially began? He realized the lodge had no helideck, but his corporation would be more than willing to pay for its construction. 

They consulted with Terry who supervised the whole project. 

Three days before the meeting was to begin, the helideck was completed. The next day, the first helicopter landed, filled with security people coming to check out the site. Two days later, two ceos of multi-national companies and their teams arrived for the negotiations being chaired by their guest. 

The helideck was used twice more that season. Terry signed up for helicopter flying lessons in North Bay. 

The second big surprise was the arrival in mid-August by a figure from their past. 

Walter went down as usual to the dock to help the new visitors off the plane. He was handing one down when he looked up and came face to face with Dana Scully. 

"Jesus!" 

Scully grinned at the unexpected reaction of her former AD. 

Walter mentally reviewed the list of people reserved for this week: there was no Dana Scully listed. He'd have remembered something like that. And, shit! he had to get word to Alex to lie low. In Scully's world, Alex Krycek was dead. 

"Well, I'll take that to indicate surprise, sir." 

Walter realized he was still holding her hand. He let go, smiled what he hoped was a sincere smile. 

"You certainly are unexpected, Agent Scully." 

"Doctor, not agent. I left the Bureau some time ago, sir." 

"Walter, please." 

So ex-Agent, now Doctor Dana Scully explained how a friend's mother had had a heart attack and how she had taken his reservation. She'd heard, of course, through the grapevine, that he'd moved to the outer reaches of civilization. But she had to admit she was surprised at just how remote the lodge was. 

Just then, Alex came around the corner of the porch to help and came face to face with Dana Scully. 

Alex was even more surprised than Walter had been. Scully was speechless. 

She looked from him to Walter. 

"Scully, I'm sure you remember Alex. My partner." 

"Sir! He's dead." She looked back at Alex. "You're dead." 

"Alex, why don't you take *Doctor* Scully to our cabin and I'll join you there after I finish assigning rooms." Walter took Scully's hand in his, put on his best AD voice, "Please, Dana. This is important. Too important to discuss out here. I promise I'll join you as soon as I can." 

A half hour later he opened the door to their cabin and found Scully sitting in an armchair, a coffee in hand, with Alex sprawled at one end of the couch. Madonna and her new pups were vying for Scully's attention, which she was parcelling out, a wary eye on Alex. Boy was sitting next to Alex, big head resting on Alex's knee, keeping a careful eye on Scully. 

Walter joined Alex on the couch. One of the pups abandonned Scully and came to claim his attention. 

"So, Scully, what do you want to know?" Walter scratched the pup's head. 

Dana Scully wanted to know lots of things, but took a deep breath and got straight to the point. "Who knows Krycek is alive and here?" 

"You." 

"Sir, you know he killed the agent assigned to him." 

Walter looked at Alex. "No, Scully. I know the man is dead. Alex was badly wounded at the same time. We can only guess at those responsible, but that's all." 

Scully squinted her eyes at the look that passed between the two men. She'd already noticed through the bedroom's open door that there was only one bed. 

"Is Krycek why you've buried yourself in the wilds, sir?" 

Walter looked at her. "Buried? I'll have you know that this is a thriving enterprise, Dana. And no, not because of Alex, though he did join me here as soon as he could." 

"Sir?..." 

"Dana, do you think you could call me Walter." 

Scully got up, placed her mug down on the table, took a nervous turn around the room. All eyes, human and canine, watched her. 

She stopped in front of the two men. "Would it be better if I left? I understand that the plane will be leaving after lunch. I give you my word that I won't mention Krycek's being alive to anyone." 

Alex stood up. "Scully, whatever made you come up here?" 

Scully sighed. "I needed a holiday." 

"So, is my being here going to interfer much with all that?" 

She looked at him. Thought before answering. "I don't know. I must admit I'm not happy to see you. I came up here to see how AD...how Walter was doing." 

"What if I stay out of your way as much as I can? Would that make your stay easier?" 

Walter made a small noise of protest but they ignored him. 

"Maybe. Probably. I don't know! I wasn't expecting to see a ghost." 

A knock on the door interrupted them. Alex opened to Terry who smiled, "Sorry to butt in, but Alex, your fan club is looking for you." 

Alex smiled, called Madonna to him. "Okay, pups, let's hope they're not into cats this year." 

Walter was laughing as the door closed. 

"Fan club?" 

"The family with the three girls that arrived with you. They were up here last year. They'll drive Alex crazy. Follow him everywhere." He stood up, came over to hug her. 

Scully was flabbergasted: the AD Skinner she knew had never been a hugger. 

"Dana, thank you. Not just for staying but for understanding. Up here, away from all the brouhaha of Washington, Alex and *I* are both safe. Because, let's be honest, none of us who had anything to do with the Consortium's downfall are going to be awarded medals for our part in it. Alex, in their minds, was just more expendable. I know you have no reason to like him, but he's rather important to me. And if they try to take him out now, they'll have to take me out as well. I really appreciate your offer of silence and I am taking you up on it." 

He hugged her again. "Come on, I'll show you to your room. It's got a great view of the lake. And lunch will be ready by the time you unpack." He escorted her out of the cabin, up the path. Was giving her the tour guide speech when they saw Alex with his fan club, the dogs and pups. 

Scully watched him laugh at something the smallest of the girls said. Walter grinned at hearing him. 

She looked around at what to her was stark beauty surrounded by trees. 

"So, Walter, what are winters like, up here at the edge of the universe?" 

*************************NIF*********************** 

 

* * *

 

Title: The Lodge II: The Visitor  
Author: Josan  
Beta: LaurieCF  
Date: November, 1999   
Summary: You've guessed it: Mulder finds his way to the Lodge  
Pairing: Sk/K with M. NOTE: I write Sk/K, *NOT* Sk/M or M/K. If this pairing annoys you, please delete. If you still go ahead and read it, don't complain about the pairing.  
Rating: PG-13  
Archive: With thanks to CJK at: http://adult.dencity.com/CJK/, Yes to Basement  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. I know that. But nothing says that I have to like it. 

NOTE: This is for all of you who wrote to say that you would have liked to see Mulder show up at the Lodge. 

Thanks to BlueMohairBear who gave me the germ of the idea, to LaurieCF who helped me find the angle on Mulder and then stay on track.  
  


* * *

 

They'd said goodbye to the last guest, to the staff, closed up the cabins, drained pipes and were getting ready for the winter when the letter arrived. 

It came from one of the big publishing companies in the States, wondering if it would be possible for one of their writers to come up for a month. He needed seclusion, no distractions to finish a manuscript. They understood that he could get that at their lodge. 

They were also aware that the lodge didn't take guests in the off-season, so that the writer was more than willing to pay double the going summer rate for the inconvenience. 

Would they be so kind as to contact Mary Jane MacIsaac as to the particulars? 

Walter tossed the letter onto the kitchen table. "What do you think?" 

Alex reached over, picked up the letter. Looked at it. 

"They're Mulder's publishers." 

Walter tipped back the chair he was sitting on, rested the heels of his boots on an edge of the table. If their cook, Marie, had been around, he wouldn't have dared do such a thing: she would have smacked him, hard. 

"That went through my mind, too. Dana was bound to speak to him. Still, maybe we're jumping the gun here. They do represent other writers." 

Alex just raised an eyebrow. 

"Well, let's think on it. We don't need to answer right away." 

But they did have a time limit. If they wanted to talk to Mary Jane MacIsaac in person, they needed to co-ordinate with the Anik satellite to get a phone line into the States. And then there was transportation. Terry wouldn't chance his new helicopter, the one that the Council had purchased for him. In the winter he would only use the Otter, so the lake had to be frozen and the weather clear for him to deliver the package. 

Then Molly, the Postmistress, contacted them on the radio. 

"You have a letter here from New York. Do you want me to open it?" 

Alex looked at Walter who shrugged. "Sure. Go ahead, Molly." 

Another request, this time with the ante upped to three times their usual charge. Molly gave a low whistle. "With that, you could put real bathrooms in all the cabins!" 

As usual, everyone in Latchford, known locally as LA, knew as much about their business as they did. 

Alex thanked her, asked if there was any other business. 

That night over their chess game, Walter brought it up. 

"Well?" 

Alex picked up his knight, played with it in his hand. Said nothing. 

"Alex, if you don't want him up here, if you think we can't trust him, we just say no. That's all there is to it." 

Alex looked up, met Walter's eyes. "I always thought you'd end up with him." 

Walter was stunned for a moment, then gave a hoot of laughter. "Jesus, Alex! He drove me crazy when all I had to do was supervise him. I can't for one minute think he would have driven me less crazy if I had been attracted to him. And I doubt very much that he's changed." 

He reached out, laid his hand on Alex's. 

"No, love. I've got what I want. And you're everything I'll ever want, or need." His voice softened. "Don't ever doubt that, Alex." 

Alex gave a shy nod. Turned his hand so that their fingers laced. Took a deep breath. 

"Okay. Let's do it. The money's nice. And besides, we're not certain it is Mulder." 

Walter grinned. "There is a way to find out if they won't tell us." 

Alex thought about it, grinned back. 

They got a line through to New York the next day. And no, Mary Jane MacIsaac wouldn't give them the name of the writer involved. 

"It's not that we don't trust you, Mr. Skinner, but this is not a secure line. And our writer is very popular with the public and doesn't want anyone following him up there. I'm sure you understand." 

Yes, he did. Now did their writer understand that there was no electricity up here? They did have a generator, but they only ran it for the septic system when the holding tank needed emptying. 

Ms. MacIsaac seemed to be rather taken aback. What exactly did that mean? 

Well, it meant that the lighting was kerosene lanterns; the heat, wood; *no* television. Just short wave radio, possibility of telephone communication only one hour a day. And was the writer aware that the only way in or out was by plane, and that was weather dependent? 

Oh, dear, said Ms. MacIsaac. And then there was another slight problem, from her end. Her writer, when he was on a roll, wouldn't consider such factors as heat and light: he forgot to eat unless someone placed the food next to him. 

No problem at this end, Mr. Skinner assured her. They could keep an eye on all that. For what he was going to pay, they had no objection to seeing to it that the room and writer were kept functional. Would their coming in to attend to such things bother him? 

No, indeed, Ms. MacIsaac assured them. When he was like that, a bomb could go off next to him and he wouldn't hear it. 

Well, then, as long as he had ample batteries for his laptop...she had to remember, there was no corner store around here. 

Yes, of course. She would make sure that he had a case full of the things just to make sure. 

"And you'd better make sure he has a couple of cases of sunflower seeds. We don't have any of those up here." 

"Oh, dear! How did you...?" She sighed loudly. "Yes, well. You're right. He'll go crazy if he runs out of those before the work is finished. I'll see to it." 

Walter turned to Alex and nodded. 

"And, Ms. MacIsaac, it gets very cold even at this time of the year. Make very sure he has the appropriate clothes. We don't want him freezing to death, do we?" 

******************************************************* 

Terry skied the plane to the dock, on a beautiful late November afternoon. 

Walter was waiting at the landing with the sled and the dogs. 

A man jumped out, dressed in an arctic parka, coveralls and heavy arctic boots. Behind him, Terry shared a smirk with Walter: these southerners and their "thin" blood. 

"Hello, Mulder." 

Mulder pushed the hood off his face. "I figured you knew it was me when Mary Jane mentioned the sunflower seeds." 

They checked each other out for changes as they shook hands. 

Walter was wearing a thick sweater, jeans. After three years, his blood had "thickened" enough that he didn't find a windless, sunny day that cold, even if the lake had frozen over. 

Mulder was pleased to find his ex-boss looking pretty much as he remembered him. Minus the strained tension that had permeated all their lives in those last days of hearings, revelations. 

In fact, Skinner looked as if nothing much bothered him. He and Terry were unloading the plane, catching up on local gossip. The lead dog of the sled was calmly watching Skinner while the others were all straining for attention from the guest. 

Terry refused an offer for coffee: he was leaving for Toronto, for a week's worth of extra lessons on a helicopter. Yep, he had their list of the things they wanted. He'd see them in a couple of weeks. 

Both men waited until Terry had taken off to make their way up to the lodge. Mulder was impressed with the way the dogs all snapped to attention when Skinner ordered them to "Go!" 

Mulder stopped in the yard to look over the site. He smiled at Skinner. "Just like Scully described it. She said it was beautiful, and it is." 

Walter looked around his home and smiled, "It is that. Come on. I'll show you where we set you up." 

They'd given Mulder their room. It would be easier to keep warm, being right above the kitchen, had its own bathroom. They'd moved their things into the bedroom Alex had used when he'd first moved into the lodge. 

Mulder looked around the room, at the four poster bed, large matching dresser, the glass-fronted wood stove emitting a gentle heat, the colourful braided carpet on the honey gold wood floor. They had brought up a large table, set it by the window for light. There were three lanterns in the room, all ready to be lit. 

"Bathroom's through here. Closet. Why don't you start unpacking while I bring the rest of your things up." 

Mulder tossed his parka unto the bed. 

"Skinner." 

Walter had his hand on the knob, ready to close the door behind him. 

"Where's Krycek?" 

Walter turned around to face his ex-subordinate. 

"My *partner*," Walter wanted the ground rules firmly established, "is working at his chores. Since I am the official host, it is my pleasure to greet *guests*. If you care to join us downstairs for supper this evening, we'll be happy to have you. I understand that once you begin working, we will be bringing your meals up here to you." 

Mulder was not surprised that Skinner could still put on that AD tone of his. He nodded. "Yes, thank you. I would like to join you two for supper. If it's no bother." 

"No bother at all, Mulder."   
And with that Walter closed the door behind him. 

Shit! thought Mulder. Well, Scully had warned him that Skinner was very protective of Krycek. Still, he was willing to bet that she had been more warmly received than he had been. That the lines between them hadn't been so firmly drawn. 

To be fair, the last time he'd seen Skinner he hadn't been very friendly. 

Hell, he had found it hard to be polite, never mind diplomatic at that stage of the proceedings. All that information -- answers to questions that had haunted him for years -- all that to be covered up, to be deep-sixed, all for the good of the Nation. The average man on the street, he'd been told, wouldn't know how to handle the information that had been uncovered. Translation: the average honourable member of the Senate didn't know what to do with it. 

After the fact, he could understand -- still not accept but he did understand -- why the in camera Senate investigations were necessary. He knew that to Skinner they were the lesser of two evils: in camera or none at all. 

And his support for the conspiracy of silence still hadn't protected Skinner when the clean-out began. He'd been the first of them to "retire" from the scene. Then Scully, who went off to Baltimore. To Johns Hopkins, who were bloody glad to get her. 

Even Krycek had disappeared. Being the source of so much crucial information hadn't, in the end, given him the immunity he thought he had bargained for. Until Scully's visit after her summer vacation, Mulder had often consoled himself with the image of Krycek lying dead in a ditch somewhere, an unmourned-for casualty of their *victory* over the Consortium. 

Only he had hung around, making himself very visible. Only he, or so he had felt for some time, had cared enough about the truth to fight their cover-up. Until he had been confronted by his own mother and told to face facts: Samantha was dead and never coming back. 

No matter how much noise he made, how much attention he got, nothing was going to change that. Or change the fact that his father had given Sam to the Consortium. That he had deserved to die. 

That, in her opinion, it was a pity that Alex Krycek had been so good at his job that William Mulder had died quickly. That he should have died as slowly as she, Teena, had been dying all these years without her child. 

After that, when OPR had demanded his badge, it had almost been a relief. 

Mulder spent the rest of the afternoon in his room, unpacking, putting things away, setting up his work area. Storing the large box of batteries his laptop would need under the table; the two boxes of sunflower seeds to the side. All close at hand for when he would need them. 

It had taken only a glance at Terry at the airport in North Bay to know that he was overdressed for the season, but he'd nearly frozen to death once and he wasn't going to chance it again. He'd brought up a fair supply of silk and thermal longjohns for any occasion, thick sweats, heavy socks, lined moccasins. 

The room was pleasantly warm with its wood heat and he hoped he would remember to keep it going even if he were on a roll. Hell, he was the one who had arranged to come up here at this time of the year. Mary Jane had assured him that the lodge owner had promised to take care of these disturbances for him, but he wondered if Skinner would remember just how obsessed he was when he was working. 

The sun was already low when he went exploring the top floor. He discovered that the room next to his was being used. He hesitated at the doorway, wanting to snoop, but realizing that it would be an invasion of privacy. He carefully closed the door. Didn't check out any of the others. 

The lobby downstairs was closed up, as was the dining room. Mulder wondered what they were like in the summer, filled, according to Scully, with people, some children, dogs. He still had a hard time imagining Skinner in the hotel business. Couldn't even begin to see Krycek in it. 

He found his way to the kitchen, attracted by the smells and the warmth. 

"Nice set up you got here," he said on entering. 

The man at the stove turned around. "We like it." Alex leaned a hip against the counter. "Hello, Mulder. You're looking good." 

"Krycek." 

For a long minute, the two of them just stared at each other. 

Alex saw a man who had more silver in his hair than the last time he'd seen him. A few more lines on his face. Still the rangy runner's body. Looking less driven. He'd gotten some answers with the downfall of the Consortium: he hadn't necessarily liked them, but he'd gotten them. 

Mulder was surprised. Krycek looked a little older, as they all did, but apart from that, the man hadn't really changed that much. He looked as though he had put on some weight, as if he were eating on a regular basis. 

Shit, you would think that considering the havoc the man had wrought in all their lives, it would show on him somehow. 

And maybe his mother could accept -- hell rejoice --that Krycek had killed her ex-husband, but Mulder wasn't sure that he was that forgiving, even if the information that had come out had indicated that William Mulder was a bigger bastard than anyone had thought him to be. 

Krycek didn't look any more pleased to see him than he was to see Krycek. 

"Hear you arrived dressed for the arctic." 

Mulder shrugged. "Well, I believe proper winter clothing was specified." By now, he supposed everyone in the area knew he was overdressed by their standards. "You're looking well for a dead man." 

Alex gave a bit of a nod, turned back to the stove. "Supper won't be ready for an hour or so." He moved something in the oven. Reached for a pie on the counter, put it beside the roasting pan. 

"Make yourself at home. You'll find books over on those shelves," he nodded towards a back corner, "some magazines. Newspapers, if you like week-old news." Alex left the kitchen, pulled on his boots, a Gore-tex jacket over his sweater. Went back outdoors. 

>From the back room window, Mulder could see the dogs jumping up around Krycek, vying for attention as he made his way down the shovelled path to the wood stacked just behind the lodge. 

For a while, Mulder watched Krycek load a large box on runners with wood, then whistle for the dogs. He attached leads to three of the larger ones, and with Krycek pushing, the dogs pulling, the box made its way to the bottom of the porch steps. There, the dogs were released, and Krycek began unloading and adding the wood to the stack already on the porch. 

Mulder thought about it for a minute, pulled on a pair of boots he found by the door, grabbed one of the coats hanging there and went out to help. 

"What are you doing, Mulder?" Krycek didn't sound pleased. 

"Helping out. And before you tell me paying guests don't help out, tell me you didn't let Scully help when she offered. Because she told me all about the fun she had playing dining room hostess." 

They stacked two more loads of wood before Krycek stored the box in an overhang, unharnessed the dogs, called the others, and settled them in for the night in their kennel. Mulder stood watching as Krycek gave each dog its share of attention, compliments for the work they'd done that day. The largest of the dogs followed them inside, went and joined another in the corner. 

******************************************************* 

Walter was waiting for them, supper ready. There was chicken and all that went with it, apple pie for dessert. Very little conversation with the meal. 

Mulder doubted that this was the normal pattern of things between the two men. It was as if Skinner and Krycek were waiting for him to do something, say something. So he did. 

"Okay. So this was a bad idea." 

Walter and Alex shared a look. Neither of them, he noticed, disagreed with him. 

"But I do need a place to work without distractions and this really does satisfy that need. I'll probably start working on the final draft tomorrow morning, so you won't have to deal with me beyond what has been arranged. And I promise to leave as soon as I'm finished. 

"And, in case you're worried, Scully made me promise not to tell anyone about Krycek. I don't break promises I've made to her. Thank you for supper. It was very good." 

He stood up, ready to make a dramatic exit when Skinner growled, "Jesus, Mulder, sit down." And waited until he did. "Look, Alex and I aren't the chattiest of people at the best of times. We've just finished a long season of being nice and polite to people. At this time of year, we really need a lot of quiet to make up for that. 

"Now I don't know what you were expecting from us. The last time Alex saw you, you tried to beat him to a pulp in the Senate hallway after he admitted to killing your father. The last time you saw me, you came close to spitting in my face for agreeing that the Senate hearings should be held in camera. 

"Your coming up here may be putting both our lives on the line. Fortunately, this is our territory, and if anyone tries to get to us, they've got a lot of territory to cover and very few ways of making it in without garnering attention." 

Mulder was taken aback. "You think I'm putting your lives at stake? Then why the hell did you agree to my coming up here?" 

Walter stood up, started gathering the dishes. "Because we both know you, Mulder. If we'd said no, you would have found a way of coming up here anyway. And probably a lot less quietly. 

"This way, you have a reason that anyone can confirm. And you've got enough things to do to keep yourself busy. Moreover," he added with a grin, "a good innkeeper never turns down a guest willing to pay triple, for any reason. 

"And before you take offense, let me also tell you, we start our days early and we finish them early. Especially by city standards. You're welcome to join us at any time, as would be any other guest we'd have staying. 

"But, Mulder, we do have things to do outside, and very limited daylight to do them in. And we do try to get as much done as possible in this warmer weather. 

"If you come looking for us, you may not find us. There is always coffee on: the fridge in the pantry always has food in it. Serve yourself. We'll see to it that the fire in your room doesn't go out, that the lanterns are always filled, that your room is kept passably clean. We would both appreciate it if you used the wastepaper basket by the table for your sunflower shells, but we understand that in the course of things, this may not always happen. 

"We spend our evenings in the kitchen, after supper. If you need anything, that may be the best time to come to us with your request. 

"And one more thing, don't leave the lodge or the yard without telling one of us. You're not in the city here, and it's easy to get lost in the forest around here. And that rule is not just for you, but one of the house rules." Walter pulled out his most severe AD tone. "Is *that* understood, Mulder?" 

"Yes, sir, it is." He sat, waiting to be dismissed. Caught himself. Shit, old habits died hard. 

"Good. So, Mulder," Walter's voice was that of the innkeeper again, "what's it like being a best selling author?" 

Mulder looked at the two men watching him. He knew he was overreacting but the situation was beginning to make him wish he had been less determined to come up here. It flashed through his head that he would like to just make some snarky remark, to answer that oh-so-polite inquiry of Skinner's with a go-to-hell kind of answer. 

After all, he *was* a best-selling author. He had any number of important people clamouring for an interview with him. He had two books on the New York Times Bestseller list, in hard cover, no less. His first was still hovering in the #9 spot: his second was #2, alternating with Stephen King for first place. 

What had they done, these two, since they'd left D.C.? 

Oh, Mulder! (He could hear Scully now.) Don't be a bigger ass than you have to be. 

He sighed, took hold of what he hoped was an olive branch that Skinner was offering. 

He even got a smile out of Krycek with his stories of the groupies he had attracted, some of whom had tried to seduce him by showing up in his hotel room when he was doing his last book tour. 

By the time they went up to bed, Mulder first while they tended to the night fires, some of the tension had been defused. 

And, by morning, Mulder wasn't aware of anything other than the computer screen in front of him and the discs he was working on. 

Walter and Alex kept up their part of the deal. The fire in his room never went out. They kept the lanterns not only filled, but came round to light them when the light level fell. They saw to it that the food was always there when he felt the need to eat: something that wouldn't go bad if it didn't get eaten right away. They left the room pretty much alone. 

Most of the time, he never even noticed that they'd been there. He knew that they took turns: some days, Walter, others, Alex. They never interrupted, never tried to speak to him. Didn't nag him about sleeping, eating, showering. 

It was perfect. Just what he needed. 

He finished what he hoped was the final draft two weeks, five days after he'd started. He collapsed on the bed, slept for a straight 30 hours. Woke to find the room clean, himself in a clean set of sweats, tucked under the bedclothes. 

He staggered into the bathroom, took a real shower, not just something cold to keep him awake. Shaved the beard off his face. Examined the face that appeared. The effect of his eating habits stared back at him. And, as if on cue, his stomach growled loudly. 

He dressed in real clothes, not sweats. Noticed that the ones he'd stripped off during his work frenzy had been washed, put back in their drawer. 

He'd never gotten this kind of attention when he'd worked on those other books. Maybe, in spite of the initial discomfort of being here, he had finally found the right place to do his serious writing. He knew Mary Jane would be pleased with the results. He certainly was. 

It was hard to tell what time it was: a snow storm was raging out the window. He stood and stared, wondering what else he'd missed while working. Lazily wondered where he'd taken off his watch. 

Still, it must be daytime: there was enough light for him to find his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. 

And into something he hadn't even considered for an instant. 

Skinner and Krycek were in the kitchen. On the couch that was set up to take advantage of the heat coming from the stove. 

Asleep. 

Both of them. 

Krycek lying on his back. 

Skinner on his side. 

Skinner in Krycek's arms. 

Skinner's arms around Krycek. 

Skinner's head tucked under Krycek's chin. 

Krycek's eyes opened. 

Looked over to Mulder. 

Met Mulder's eyes. 

And Mulder finally understood what Scully had been hinting at when she'd commented about how protective Skinner was of Krycek. 

Alex nudged Walter's head with his chin. "Walt. We've got company." 

Walter made a grumbling sound. 

Alex rubbed his hand up and down Walter's back, eyes still holding Mulder's. "Come on, Walter. I think we've managed to take Mulder here by surprise." 

Walter rubbed his cheek against Alex's shoulder. Sighed. Opened his eyes. Looked over to the stairway and saw that Mulder was looking a little stunned. 

"Caught up on your sleep?" Walter yawned, moved a bit so that Alex could drop his feet to the floor, shift to sit up. Walter followed suit. 

Mulder felt embarrassed, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have. Krycek noticed, hid his smile behind a yawn. Walter stretched a little: afternoon naps were not the norm for them. Well, not at this time of the year. 

The loud gurgle coming from Mulder's stomach broke the silence and some of the tension. 

Walter smiled. "Sounds like your body is protesting your abuse of it, Mulder. I can fix a sandwich or I can heat up some stew. Which do you think it would prefer?" 

"Whatever's quickest." Mulder came into the room, sat at the table. Walter got up, went into the pantry to get the makings for a roast beef sandwich. Alex rested his head on the back of the couch, stretched his legs out. 

"Has it been snowing long?" Mulder found himself trying to find a subject of discussion that would keep him away from what he really wanted to ask: how long have the two of you been fucking each other? 

"Since this morning. According to the weather report, it should stop sometime overnight." Walter placed the thick sandwich in front of Mulder. Poured them each a cup of coffee. Joined Alex on the couch, watching Mulder wolf down the food like a starving man, which considering the amount of leftovers they'd dumped into Boy's and Madonna's dishes, he probably was. 

He waited until Mulder finished before saying, very casually, "You didn't know." 

Mulder looked at him, face expressionless. 

"That Alex and I are lovers." 

"No." 

"We thought maybe Dana would have mentioned it." 

"No. She...ah...she didn't. Did she know? For certain, that is." 

"She spent a lot of time with us at the cabin." Alex said. "We didn't make love in front of her, but I have no doubt she picked up enough clues." 

"Cabin?" Shit, why the hell hadn't Scully said anything? It certainly sounded as though she'd gotten rather closer to the two of them than she had let on. 

"We live in the cabin behind the lodge for the season," Walter explained. "Paying guests get the lodge. We move back in for the rest of the year. It's warmer and we have more space to move about in." 

Walter grinned at Alex. "We'd probably go stir crazy and kill each other if we spent the winters in the cabin." 

Alex smiled back. 

Mulder was taken aback by the intense anger that suddenly overwhelmed him. He wanted to go over there and beat that smile off Krycek's face! He had to grip the edge of the table. 

Jesus! What was the matter with him? 

He took a deep breath and got himself under control. Shit! He hadn't felt like this since the day he'd handed in his resignation to the FBI disciplinary board: in spite of being proved right, they had wanted his badge for his "irrational" behaviour during the Senate hearings. 

By then he was all alone. Skinner and Scully were gone. He'd thrown it at them. Stomped out. Written his first book, a barely fictional description of the Consortium, its history and its downfall. Wrote it in two months. Sold it right away. It hit the bookstores four months later. Was number 1 three weeks later. 

He was still riding high. Had sold the movie rights for the first, and then his second book for an obscene amount of money. The advance for writing his third was in the high six figures. 

He could buy and sell these two men thousands of times over and not even feel it in his bank account. 

So why was he so angry? 

He was back in his bedroom, supposedly reading over his revisions, actually looking out at the snow falling in heavy large flakes, making even the grey light of the outside world look peaceful. 

The door to his room opened and someone came to stand behind him. 

The hair on the nape of his neck rose so he knew it was Krycek. 

Neither man said anything for a long time, just stood there looking out the window. 

"It's beautiful up here. No matter the season, there's always something that makes you stop and just look for a while. Makes you take stock. Maybe it's because the hills here are some of the oldest on the planet. They've been here millions of years, will be here millions more. They force us to put things into perspective." 

Mulder said nothing. 

"Did you have any idea how much you wanted him?" 

Oh, God! Mulder closed his eyes. 

"I told him before we contacted MacIsaac that I always thought you two would end up together. Not him and me. I figured the reason you were so angry at him back in D.C. had more in it than simple disagreement." 

Mulder suddenly remembered that one of the people who had seen him screaming at Skinner in the halls of the Dirksen Senate Office Building was Alex Krycek. 

"That it had its basis in some lover's spat. Imagine my surprise when I learnt that Walter had packed up and moved and that you were still in D.C. 

"I came here to hide out. Walter didn't invite me. He let me stay because he caught me about to blow my brains out. And my staying got to be a habit." 

Krycek was silent for a bit, then took a deep breath and continued. 

"I know you think I should be punished for killing your father." 

Mulder started to move, caught himself. Alex waited. Mulder's jaw clenched tight. He would make some dentist happy if this continued. 

"Jesus, Mulder. I have paid. Paid with my nightmares. Paid with my arm. Paid with being so expendable they couldn't even be bothered to send a half-way decent killer to eliminate me. 

"But the one thing I will not pay with is Walter. You had your chance in D.C. The fact that you didn't act on it is not my fault." 

Mulder didn't hear Krycek move away, only heard the door close softly behind the man. 

Supper was a very quiet affair. Mulder excused himself as quickly as it was polite to do so, returned to his unlit room to stare out the window. 

Skinner was the one who knocked softly at the door, to see if he needed anything. Mulder watched him light a couple of the lanterns, add wood to the fire, change the towels in the bathroom for clean ones. Act like the innkeeper he had become. 

"Do you miss it?" 

Skinner cocked his head. "Miss what?" 

"The Bureau. D.C." Mulder made a gesture that revealed a certain sense of frustration. "Everything you had before you came here." 

Skinner leaned back against the foot of the bed. Gave a sort of half smile. "Civilization?" 

"Yeah, that too." Mulder pulled the chair away from the table, sat on it. 

"First couple of months after I was pushed out, I resented what they had taken away from me. I won't deny that. But then I came up here. After that, I didn't have the time to think much about it. There was so much to do before the winter and so little time to do it in." 

"Did you ever think about...us? About Scully and me, I mean." 

Skinner crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, I knew that Scully had resigned. She did that just as I left. We found out what happened to you when we went to Toronto after our second season. Your book and your picture were in every bookstore we went to." 

"Did you buy it?" Mulder asked more out of curiosity than anything else. 

"No. Not because we didn't think it would make a good read, but because we didn't want to relive it. Alex still has nightmares. Nowhere near as bad as they were when he first arrived here, but still too often for us to go there. 

"I did buy your second one for Terry. Gave it to him for his birthday." He went back to the original subject. "But to answer your question; no, I don't miss it. I have everything here that I need. We both do. And we find that a week or ten days in Toronto is all the 'civilization' that we need or can put up with these days." 

"You keep on saying 'we'." Mulder's tone turned challenging. "Are you sure that it's how *you*, Walter Sergei Skinner, feel or how *Krycek* feels?" 

Skinner smiled kindly. "Mulder. I am not being kept here against my will. I am not in a relationship with Alex because he's coerced me. I love it here. And I love Alex." 

He moved away from the bed, went to check the fire one last time. "If you stay up to work, you might want to put another log on before going to bed." 

He stopped at the door. "You know, Alex once told me that he thought you and I might end up together." 

Mulder looked up at him, carefully paying attention. 

"I told him the two of us would have driven each other crazy. I would have tried to control you: you would have bucked me all the way. We would have repeated the same pattern that we'd established at the Bureau. Ended up hating each other. *Really* hating each other. 

"Good night, Mulder." 

It was a long time before Mulder went to bed. He remembered to put another log in. Lay staring at the reflections of the firelight on the ceiling. 

The sun was reflecting brilliantly against all that new snow. Mulder put on several layers of clothes, went downstairs to the kitchen. He finished a cup of coffee, pulled on the rest of his outdoor clothes, his sunglasses and went to find his hosts. 

The porch had already been cleared indicating that the two had been working out here for some time. He found Skinner shovelling out the path to the wood behind the lodge; Krycek had made his way to the dogs, had fed them and was now letting them out to roll in the yard. 

Mulder picked up a shovel and went to help. The pups pretty much stayed underfoot all the time he was clearing the path to their kennel. 

They got him a telephone link to Mary Jane and he downloaded his manuscript to her. She called back the next day. The downloading hadn't been a total success, but she'd gotten enough to know that it was the best thing he'd written so far. When was he coming back down? They had to get a good copy so that she could really go over it with him. 

Terry checked the Canadian Meterological Report, told them that the next four, five days looked good. Did the package want immediate pick-up or did it want to wait and enjoy the nice weather for a couple of days? 

Mulder shook his head: -20C was not his idea of nice weather even if the sun were shining. He thought that the next morning would be good. With luck he'd be in New York that evening, in time for the Sci-Fi channel's marathon running of Kolchak. 

Krycek stayed behind in the lodge. Skinner and Mulder watched Terry ski the Otter to where they stood waiting on the dock. It didn't take long to pack his stuff onto the plane. Terry got in, leaving the two men to say their goodbyes in private. 

Skinner removed his glove, offered his bare hand to Mulder. 

Mulder looked at him, took off his mitts. Shook his hand. Held it. Krycek had been right: he had had all that time in D.C. and hadn't even been aware of it. And now the two of them had gone off in widely different directions. 

"Take care," said Skinner. 

Mulder nodded. Released Skinner's hand. Turned to get into the plane. Hesitated. Over his shoulder, "Could I come up here to do the next book?" 

Skinner smiled. "Sure. Just remember to bring up your own bird seed." 

The dedication to Mulder's third book read: To the Temiskaming. 

*************************NIF***************************

 

* * *

 

Title: THE LODGE: STORM (1/1)  
Author: Josan  
Date: January, 2000  
Summary: Entry in the Slash-writers "Storm" challenge  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Archive: With thanks to CJK at: http://adult.dencity.com/CJK/  \- Yes, to Basement, Ratlover  
Comments:   OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try 

DISCLAIMER: Yes, these are the property of CC, Fox and 1013: but it's cold here and I'm only borrowing them to warm up.

* * *

THE LODGE: STORM

Walter turned off the CB radio and grimaced. Well, considering the time of year, it was to be expected. Not liked, but at least Terry had given them ample warning so they could get ready.

He pulled on his outdoor clothes and went out to give Alex the news.

"I think we should bring the dogs in. Terry wasn't sure how long this storm is going to last, but he told us to be ready for at least three, four days of it."

Alex found it funny that Walter was always worried about dogs that had been bred to endure sub-zero temperatures, whose pelts were so thick that all they needed was some shelter and they would be more than warm enough.

Still, he rounded up the seven dogs and pups, settled them in the mud room using some of the straw that he used to insulate their kennels. It would serve to keep the dogs off the cement floor of the mud room, absorb any little "accidents" that should happen during their stay indoors. Madonna and Boy would, of course, be spending more time with them in the kitchen, in their usual corner.

Walter went around making sure all the cabin doors were secure, that the rope-guides to the wood pile were tightly knotted. They had already stacked more than the normal amount along the porch and in the mud room, as a precaution. Alex joined him for a final inspection and then, as the snow began falling, they both went in, patted the excited puppies who had rarely been allowed indoors, calming them, settling them down. The older dogs had claimed whatever straw had appealed to them and curled up, knowing that the storm was well begun.

Inside, Walter and Alex double-checked the upstairs. That all the windows were truly shut and shuttered, that all water had been turned off. Alex made sure the fire in their room had died down enough for him to close the damper, the flue. He gathered all the clothes he thought they would both need and piled them in one of the laundry baskets.

By now they felt like old hands at this. Between the two of them, they rearranged the kitchen, dragged down one of the double-sized mattresses, pulled in two of the long couches from the lobby. Using some rope to tie the legs together, they made a foundation for the mattress. Walter made the bed up in the corner while Alex went and got some of the heavy blankets, a couple of the duvets from the linen room. After the first winter, they had arranged for some removable doors to be made to block off the bottom of the stairs leading up. They would be concentrating the heat in the kitchen and in the small bathroom just off it.

The pantry was filled so food was not a problem. Since the fridge, the freezer worked off propane, the food they did have would not go bad. Walter did make sure the radio was working. He arranged with the Postmistress in LA to call in at a certain time every day, just in case. Encazou, she called it.

Alex remembered to bring down the book Walter read every night before going to bed. Added a few others from their bedroom bookcase. He even brought down the CD player that they fuelled with the batteries Mulder had left behind when he'd been up at the start of that winter.

By the time the mid-day sky had blackened, their preparations were complete and they settled in to wait out the storm.

Walter set himself up at the table with some of the endless paper work associated with running a business. Alex puttered around, putting together the ingredients for a chocolate cake as their summer cook, Marie, had taught him to make.

They ate supper, cleaned up and spent the evening playing their usual game of chess. Alex let the dogs out for a quick turn on the porch, had no trouble getting them back in out of the stinging storm.

That night, Walter got ready for bed first. The bathroom downstairs barely had room for the toilet, a small sink, the shower stall. One person using it was a squeeze: two, an impossibility.

He was waiting for Alex in their makeshift bed when Alex came out, hair still damp, wearing their usual nightwear for the time of year, heavy fleece sweats and thick wool socks. Alex checked the wood stove one last time, turned off the kerosene lamp. He crawled over the armrests and made his way over to the raised covers. Walter dropped them over him.

"What was that grin about?" Alex snuggled close to Walter's heat.

"What grin?"

Alex looked over his shoulder at his smiling partner. "The one you flashed me before I turned off the light. The one you're fighting off even as I speak."

"Oh. *That* one." Walter's smile grew into the grin Alex was accusing him of.

"So?"

"I was just thinking."

Alex rolled over a bit so that he could watch Walter's face. "Should I ask about what?"

Walter propped himself up on an elbow, the easier to see the face looking up at him. "I was just thinking how we both are probably wearing as much clothing to go to bed here as we wore to work in, before."

"I'm not wearing my leather jacket." Alex made himself comfortable. For two men who barely spoke ten sentences to each other throughout the day, their nightly ritual made up for it. "Do you want me to go upstairs and put it on?"

Walter grinned evilly. "But then I would have to insist that you take off all the other clothes you have on and wear just that. Might be a bit cold, considering."

Alex gave a little shrug. "Then I would have to insist that you take all your clothes off, too. I'm sure I could think of something to do to keep us warm."

"I'm sure you could." Walter slowly lowered his head to the mouth coming up to meet his. "Still," he said when they'd both caught their breaths, "wouldn't do to catch cold. I'm sure we can find a way without getting too cold."

Alex gave the soft laugh that always found its way to Walter's groin. "I'm sure we can. We do seem to have lots of experience with this."

"Can never have too much," whispered Walter.

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Encazou = slang for "en cas d'ou": means "in case of" or, colloquially, "just in case".

 

* * *

 

Title: MORNING REFLECTIONS  
Author: Josan  
Date: April, 2000  
Summary: Alex at the Lodge  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: Though it is in response to a PWP sex challenge on Sk/K, it is PG. Sorry, Alex had other things on his mind and wouldn't co-operate...this time.  
Archive: With thanks to CJK at: http://adult.dencity.com/CJK/ Yes, to Basement, Ratlover, Sergeeva.  
Comments: OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try   
DISCLAIMER: These are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but the way he's using them this season...well, okay, I promised no more rants on the subject...  
DEDICATION: To Virgule, who keeps me "true" to the North.

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MORNING REFLECTIONS  
by Josan

Alex poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it while watching the sun climb slowly between tall hills on the other side of the lake.

Dawn came early at this time of year: it was barely four a.m. It was his favourite time of the day. The air was still crisp with early dew; the lake, alive with wisps of mist. The mosquitoes and black flies hadn't yet begun their daily blitzkrieg. Once in a while the morning silence was broken by the echoing sound of the loon that nested nearby.

And by the snore that came from the open bedroom door.

Alex smiled to himself as he looked over his shoulder at the man sleeping soundly. He was on the early shift this week: Walter, on the late. It was his turn to see off the guests who wanted to go fishing at the crack of dawn. It was Walter's to put the place to bed.

Alex stepped up to the small kitchen they'd set up in the cabin. Nothing fancy. Just a two burner propane set-up. Apart from hot drinks, the occasional snack, they ate at the Lodge with the staff and guests. He poured himself another coffee and settled on the couch to pull on his boots.

The day promised to be hot for the time of year. He wore what was basically their uniform for the season. Shirt, with sleeves rolled up. Actually one of Walter's old Bureau shirts which sat baggy on him. Apart from a couple that Walter kept for "official" occasions, Alex had pretty much taken the rest of them over. He wore this one tucked into a pair of soft, worn jeans. Then thick socks in hiking boots. 

Any skin that could possible offer the treat of a meal to any passing bug had been slathered with insect repellent. He'd even rubbed some into his hair, making sure that his scalp was covered. 

Someone in the 1940's, who had come up to this neck of the woods on a summer make-work program, had written a song about the black flies of Northern Ontario, about how they'd pick his bones clean. 

After that first summer Alex believed it. And the song had become one of those that he whistled under his breath, not really aware he was doing it, whenever he had to work outdoors for any length of time. 

It didn't help that Walter had no trouble with the damn things. He might rub some repellent on when he was going fishing, but apart from that...

A loud snorty snore caught his attention. Walter lay on his stomach, one arm threatening to fall off the side of the bed, the other under the pillow in which he was hiding his face. The sheet, the only covering they were using these days, was down to his thighs, framing that lovely ass Alex so loved to caress when they were making love.

He sighed.

They didn't do much of that during the season. It was difficult. There were always people around. If one of them was working the early shift, the other was working the late. The screened windows of the cabin had to be kept open for cross-current ventilation as their only cooling was the breeze that came off the lake.

Oh, they had sex. Once in a while. Just enough to keep the edge off their libidos. 

But that was all it was. Sex.

They kept the loving for the winter-time. For nights that lasted 16, 17 hours. For days when they had nothing to do apart from seeing to the dogs. 

When, if Walter wanted to take him on the kitchen table, there was no Marie to gasp at their scandalous treatment of her working space. Or, if he wanted to see how long foreplay could be drawn out before Walter went completely ballistic and took him on the floor, there were no staff, no guests around to watch, to offer comments, suggestions, improvements on their techniques.

When they could say aloud to each other the secrets of the heart which they could only whisper in season. 

And Walter. Alex grinned at his sleeping lover. It seemed as if Walter stored up all the sexuality, the loving that he couldn't show during the season to release when they were alone. For a man his age, he was -- or so it seemed -- perpetually hard, or hard at the hint of a suggestion of intercourse the moment the last of the staff waved good-bye.

Last season, Alex hadn't even made it off the dock.

Not that he was complaining. His body too seemed to have stored up the touches, the tastings, the caresses, the fucking it needed until it was safe to let loose. And he, a man who had once thought of sex as a tool, spent his summer nights nestled close to the man who meant more to him than life, sneaking cuddles, chaste kisses, and being satisfied with them.

>From off the lake came the sudden sound of a small motor. Alex quickly finished his coffee. John Sebatien was coming to pick up the two fishermen who wanted him to guide them. He'd better make sure that they were up. John was an expert guide, but he hated wasting good fishing time and he wasn't always polite about it. 

A sudden breeze brought cool air from off the lake. Alex stopped at the door, turned and went back into their bedroom. He pulled the sheet up and lightly covered Walter. It wouldn't do for him to get chilled while he was sleeping. Alex dropped a kiss onto a shoulder before he covered it.

Outside, Boy was waiting for him. Together they made for the dock where the two fishermen were hurrying along with their equipment, lunches, quietly greeting their host and guide.

*******************************************************

 

* * *

 

Title: THE LODGE: WORDS  
Author: Josan  
Date: SEPTEMBER, 2000  
Summary: It's all about words.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: Sorry, all they do is talk.  
Archive: Yes to RatB, Basement, Ratlover, SKSA, Sergeeva.  
Comments: OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try   
DISCLAIMER: The main characters are the property of CC, Fox and 1013. The Temiskaming belongs to no one.  
THANKS again to Virugle for verifying all the landscape.

* * *

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Thought I'd find you here."

Alex didn't respond. Just kept on looking over the lake into the distance.

It was a lovely view, what with the lake top shimmering from a light breeze, the mountains green and gold in their autumn foliage. Walter liked looking at it himself, whenever he could steal a moment from the chores of running the lodge.

Except that it was nearly midnight and one of those starless, moonless nights they occasionally got up here that made it hard to see five feet ahead of you. Even the owls that usually started hunting at this time of night were silent.

Alex was sitting on the trunk of a large tree some storm, years ago, had pulled down so that it lay almost perpendicular to the water line. The shore here was rocky, not attractive to swimmers. Not encouraged for swimming because it was around a bend from the lodge and therefore rather isolated. In fact, it helped to be a bit of a tracker to find the way to it from off one of the main paths.

Far enough away for privacy, close enough so that a shrill whistle from the dock at the lodge could easily be heard.

Perfect for Alex who sometimes needed to get away from the hustle, the demands, the noise of the lodge.

Walter shook his head slightly, sighed. He rested his shoulder against one of the jack pines, crossed his arms. And waited.

"I'll apologize," Alex finally said to the darkness.

Walter's grunt was non-committal.

"Terry should be able to pick me up in the morning on his way back from Moosenee."

Walter straightened. "Why should Terry be able to pick you up?"

"Because..." Alex rubbed his hand over his face. He tried again. "Because it would be better if I left."

"If you...Jesus! Alex! What the hell's made you come to that asinine conclusion?" Walter came up to the log, dropped his hand on Alex's shoulder.

Alex shook it off.

Walter was stunned. "Look. You've lost me here. Why do you think you have to go? MacLeod was the one who was drunk. You're the one who was going to help him to his room. He's the one who took a swing at you. In front, may I remind you, of a room filled with people."

Alex turned his head as if to look over his shoulder. "Who also said, in a room filled with people, that he didn't want to be touched by a, and I quote, 'fucking cock-sucking fag'. Or have you forgotten that?"

Walter's sigh sounded exasperated. "So since when have you become so sensitive that some drunken idiot's slur gives rise to *this* reaction?"

"He said it," said Alex, in the tones of someone explaining something to someone not overly bright, "to a room filled with people."

"So?" Walter passed a hand over his scalp. "If you ask me, he's the one who owes you an apology."

"For what? Telling the truth?"

"Alex, maybe I'm being really thick here. Probably because it's the end of the season and I'm tired. MacLeod got drunk. He was beginning to be obnoxious with it. You went over to him, suggested he might like to go to bed, offered to help him. *He* then became even more obnoxious, knocked over his chair getting up and..."

"And said, *in front of everyone*, that he wasn't so desperate that he wanted to go to bed with me. That he didn't care what me and my partner got up to in our cabin, but that he didn't want to be touched by a fucking cock-sucking fag."

Walter opened his mouth to say something, closed it. Instead he swung a leg over the log, sat behind Alex, close enough to feel the heat of his body, careful not to touch him.

Sometimes, he thought, he forgot that Alex had a literal side.

"Alex." He kept his voice low, calm. "Do you seriously think that no one knows that we're lovers?"

The back in front of him stiffened.

Bingo, thought Walter.

"Alex, would you be surprised to know that everyone on staff figured it out probably the very first day that they got here?" He placed his hand on the hard shoulder in front of him. "Do you think that Isabelle, who knows what's in our mail before we do, doesn't know that about us?" He began a gentle massage of the stiff muscles. "Or that the people who come here more than once haven't any idea? Or that they care?" He set his other hand to working on the other shoulder.

Usually, when he did this, Alex would sigh, bend into the massage. Tonight, the back remained stiff, the head straight. Walter felt the thread of worry twist into something thicker inside him.

"There's a difference," Alex's voice was stripped of any emotion, "between figuring it out and hearing it said out loud."

Walter stilled his hands. "True."

"The reason," the quiet voice continued, "we moved into the cabin was to give people the illusion, at least, that we were...straight."

"Now, yes. Originally, it was to give us some privacy. To put some space between us and the guests. So I could rant and rave when I had to." Walter slipped his thumbs under Alex's hair and stroked his nape, from the top bone of the spine to the hairline. It didn't work its usual magic.

"So that the men coming here didn't have to acknowledge that the macho ex-Assistant Director of the FBI owner of a hunting and fishing lodge was fucking his killer."

Walter made a grimace into the night. Damn! He should have seen this coming. Every so often Alex got very Russian on him and depressed. When he was sure that his past was suddenly going to pop up and put an end to this new life he had made for himself.

It usually took place in the depth of winter, during those days with little sunshine, and long dark nights. Alex would grow very quiet, barely speak. The first time it had happened, Walter had worried that Alex had had enough of being confined by weather and circumstance in the middle of nowhere. His love-making always had an edge to it in those days.

The solution was for Walter to take him in his arms and hold him, all the while discussing the plans for the upcoming season, quietly emphasizing Alex's role in the scheme of things. That always seemed to reassure Alex. They'd lazed many a day on the couch in the kitchen doing that while some storm raged outside.

But now it was not the dead of winter and Alex's depression was a few months early.

Walter thought it really wasn't all that surprising, all things considered. It had not been a particularly good season. The weather refused to co-operate: it had rained far more than usual. Some guests took personal offense at that, almost expecting them to do something about the weather. The fishing hadn't been great. One or two of the guides hadn't turned up when they were expected to, which meant that Walter had to leave his chores at the lodge for guiding. Alex who preferred staying in the background had found himself front man far too often.

Then there was the fact that Mulder was coming up after the season was over to work on another book. Walter had made it very clear to Alex that if he was in any way uncomfortable with the idea, that they would tell Mulder to make other plans. Alex had assured him he wasn't. Maybe he wasn't as sure as he made out to be.

So tonight hadn't helped.

MacLeod was up here with one of the business groups that more often these days booked the entire lodge while they worked out some merger or deal in complete privacy. They'd been celebrating when things had gotten out of hand. MacLeod had been growing more and more obnoxious, louder, the more he drank. One of those good old boys who was a shrewd negotiator in business, but a lousy drunk.

There had been several raised eyebrows at the comments he was making, but before he had become intolerably offensive, Alex had stepped in, offering to help him to his room. The not-so-quiet sighs of relief had turned into stunned surprise when MacLeod had pulled away, cursing Alex and taking a swing at him. Alex had reverted to his training, subdued the man and had literally dragged him off to his room.

Then he'd disappeared.

"The illusion," Alex suddenly continued, "is important. People don't like having their noses rubbed into something they don't like, that they don't approve of. That they find morally offensive."

Walter's hands included the back of Alex's head in their massage. "Okay, that's true. But I find it hard to jump from MacLeod's behaviour to your leaving. Unless, of course, this is what *you* want."

Finally, a reaction. Alex turned his body enough so that Walter could see his face. Even the dark couldn't hide the pain he found there. "Alex," he was astonished at how quickly Alex's pain filled him.

"Look." It was obvious that Alex was fighting hard to keep his feelings out of his voice. "If I'm not here, people will just assume that MacLeod was mouthing off. You won't lose any business."

"*I* won't lose any business? Alex, you're an equal partner in this business. Or have you forgotten?"

Alex shook his head. "No. But this is your business, was your idea. I'm just the guy who showed up and didn't leave. I've always known that this wasn't permanent. That one day something of what I am would show up and I would leave. And it has."

"Alex..." Walter couldn't believe he was hearing what he was hearing.

"No. Listen. In the past, I've been responsible for a lot of your pain. I know you didn't have an easy time of it with the Upper Floor when I turned out to be a plant. I know how you feel about Scully and Mulder. About what was done to them. About Melissa Scully's death. About my killing Mulder's father."

"He was," snapped Walter, "a piece of shit and he deserved to die."

Alex ignored him. "About my killing you. No," he raised his hand to stop Walter from interrupting, "I know that you've said all that is in the past and that's where it belongs. But I swore to myself that if my being here in any way endangered the life you had made for yourself, that I would leave.

"Maybe I should have left before now, but MacLeod's comment tonight made it clear to me that I can't stay. Walter, I'm responsible for a lot of shit, but I won't be responsible for your losing the place you've made for yourself up here."

Walter's immediate reaction was to shake the daylights out of Alex. He stopped that before it went further than placing his hands back on Alex's shoulders. He took a deep breath, calmed himself. "Turn around, will you, Alex. I want to see your face and in that position, you're going to end up with a cramp in your neck."

After a moment or two, Alex reluctantly swung his legs around so that he now sat facing Walter. "It doesn't matter what you say, my mind is made up."

Walter nodded. He wasn't going to argue the point. He knew from experience that Alex with his mind made up was unmoveable. That didn't mean he intended to accept this decision he had had no part in.

They were sitting close enough that Walter could see the cost of this decision in Alex's eyes. And the fact that Alex was looking at him as though memorizing every wrinkle, every facet of his face.

He raised his hands to Alex's face, framing it, holding it so that Alex wouldn't pull back. He knew he had a battle on his hands and he had every intention of winning. His thumbs stroked the high cheekbones in a soothing motion.

"You know, Alex, in all the time we've been together, we've never said the words to each other."

From the slight frown, he knew the jump had left Alex behind.

"Probably because we're men, we feel we don't have to say them. Let's face it, they're not the kind of words that easily come out of the mouths of macho ex-Assistant Directors of the FBI. Nor, for that matter, out of the mouths of ex-Consortium assassins." Walter caught Alex's reaction to that last bit: his mouth had tightened.

"I suppose we think the other knows how we feel, so what's the point of saying them. So we don't. But I think that it's time."

Walter cocked his head, smiled at the man in front of him who still hadn't clued in. Who knew, thought Walter, that someone so intelligent could be so thick?

"Point of fact, Alex. I love you."

Alex grew so still Walter thought he'd even stopped breathing.

"Now if you want to leave me because you don't return my feelings, because you don't love me, well, that's one thing. But that's the only ground I'll accept for your leaving. And you'll have to convince me of that before I let you go.

"So, Alex, convince me. Convince me that you have no feelings for me."

Alex's eyes had closed during his speech. Now his teeth caught his lower lip, as if to hold back words. Walter waited while his lover fought a battle with himself.

"Alex, would it help you to know that there are other couples like us in the area?"

Alex took a shuddering breath, opened his eyes. Voice thick, he said, "I thought we were the only ex-FBI, ex-Consortium people up here."

Walter caught the smile. He hadn't won yet. Alex was as good as he was for moving on tangents while not relinquishing the main idea. "We have that honour. But there's Johnny Two Rivers and the guy who teaches history at the high school. The two women who run the wool store. Those two idiot guides who 'forget' to show up every now and then. What? You didn't know about them? Alex."

Alex shrugged. "They look like grizzly bears. Smell like them too. It's hard to image..."

Walter shook his head, ruefully.

Alex stopped talking, looked into Walter's eyes as if trying to find a truth. "It doesn't change what I am," he said softly. "It doesn't put a stop to the damage I can bring onto you."

Walter nodded. "I've given you an easy way out, Alex. All you have to do is tell me you have no feelings for me. Do that, and I'll get up. I'll go back to the cabin and even pack your things for you. That easy, Alex."

For a moment he thought he might have lost. Alex seemed to gather his resolve in hand, brace himself as for some execution squad. He even got as far as opening his mouth. Then Walter slipped one of his thumbs to it, stroked the full lower lip. Alex deflated. "No, I can't do that," he whispered.

Walter rested his forehead against Alex's bent head. "I'm glad. I'd be even gladder if I weren't the only one tonight to put my macho-ness on the line and say the words."

Alex leaned over into Walter's embrace, slid his own arms around the other's body, holding for dear life. The decision to leave had not been easy. It had torn him apart. He thought he had been making the right one, the only one he could to protect this man. It should hurt that his sacrifice had not been accepted: he wondered just how much it would have hurt if it had been.

He took his courage in hand and whispered the words he had never said to anyone, ever. "I love you, Walter. More than life."

Walter's mouth grazed Alex's cheek. He pulled back and smiled at the man in his arms.

There was no doubting Alex's feelings. He did nothing whatsoever to hide them.

Walter nodded.

"And if you ever do decide to take off, better be sure that I'm really convinced that you've stopped loving me, Alex, or I'll go after you. And I'll find you.

"And if you think our being outed as a couple is going to make people talk, just think of the fun they'll have when I bring you back, tied down, spread-eagle, to the hood of the jeep, like the prize catch you are."

Alex snorted, went back into Walter's arms, face tucked against his neck.

"I love you," he said.


End file.
